White Hot Rage and the Number 1,728,012
by Lafayette1777
Summary: AU to "Sniper Zero." Mistakes have been made. For Don Eppes, those mistakes will never be repaired. Revised and added to.


**Author's Note: So this is for season one's "Sniper Zero." In my AU, instead of a near miss for Charlie, it's direct hit. Depressing. Please review!**

**Jan. 2: Just had a new idea and decided to add it in. Let me hear what you think!**

Of all the times his father has been right, he hates this time the most.

Don has come to realize that he reacts to worry with anger, because maybe that's the emotion he has the most experience with. He deals with it every day—animosity is the reason he has a job, the logic behind all these crimes he must solve.

But his fury predates the FBI. Go back farther and you see it as his mother struggles through her last months. Before that it's sucking out at baseball, or whatever the hell else.

It begins with his eighth birthday, as his brother miraculously pipes up the answer to the product of 1254 and 1378.

"One million, seven hundred twenty-eight thousand, and twelve."

And so the rage begins.

He's come to some kind of peace with it over the years, done some deep breathing and relaxation. He can stop dwelling on the fact that his younger brother is beyond brilliant. _It's okay,_ he thinks, _we're just different people. _

_One is not better than the other._

They coexist in Los Angeles, find themselves getting know each other again. Don is not the type to delve deep into the mechanics of relationships, but he likes being with Charlie again. As rational adults. Feuds from childhood are locked away, mostly. Not just brothers, but friends. They can work together and hang out and, for a while, things are okay.

"You've gotta take care of him," his father tells him, basically. Charlie's not a federal agent, he's just...Charlie. Little brother, mathematician. Don tells him it's fine. Everything's okay.

Lies, inadvertent though they may be.

Two shots fired from higher ground. Exact location unknown.

"Charlie, get down!"

David slams into him by the time the second shot is fired. Glass shatters. Charlie twitches as he and David smack the ground. Before Don can move, Edgerton has taken out the sniper. Charlie has not moved from the pavement, shock already setting in. Don and David lift him up into a sitting position, and there's a moment of silence as all eyes turn to them.

Terry moves first, yanking off her gray coat and running the seven steps to their huddle. By the time she reaches, the others have been revived back into motion. Edgerton drops his gun and runs for the nearest person with emergency medical training. David whips out his cellphone. Don just looks at Charlie. Charlie looks up at him.

Terry hands applying pressure with her jacket is what jerks Charlie from his stunned state. He cries out, slumps to his left side.

"You're going to be fine, Charlie."

It takes a moment for Don to realize it's himself who speaks. His tone is not reassuring. It's furious. He holds on to his brother the best he can, arms tight around him. He keeps a palm under his neck, supporting his head and counting the gentle mantra of Charlie's pulse.

Terry looks at him out of the corner of her eye. Her hands are covered in blood, the same red that stains her jacket, pressed to the victim's left chest.

"Don," she says quietly, though her voice is sharp. "Stay present."

"I'm here, I'm here."

"Keep him talking."

Charlie's still conscious, making little gasping noises, tears dripping down his cheeks in pain. "Sorry," he rasps, awake enough to know he should be speaking.

"About what?" Don, the ire ever present.

No longer coherent, he begins muttering about equations, variables, gravitational pull and velocity. Still trying to help with the case.

David snaps his phone shut.

"How soon?" Terry asks.

"Seven minutes till the ambulance arrives."

The two exchange a look, take in the dark liquid that has infected the area like the plague. Terry shakes her head ever so slightly. She talks briefly to David, but Don's ears have begun to ring and all he hears are the intermittent words that pop out.

_Aorta._

_Punctured._

_Too much._

_Too late._

Charlie manages to look up at him again. Big, scared eyes. A look Don'll never forget.

"You're going to be fine, Charlie."

As it should have a minute before, the blood loss leaves him unconscious.

m m m

"_You gotta take care of him."_

You didn't. A more exact statement would be, _you just made the biggest fucking mistake of your life, Don Eppes._

He doesn't go home for a long time. At least at work, he can distract himself with paperwork, tying up the loose ends of the sniper case. He keeps moving so he can avoid the people who keep telling him to go home. He responds, bitterly, angrily, every time to their concerns.

Finally, Edgerton tears the pen and papers from his hands and explodes, "Go the fuck home, Don!"

His breath is loud in his ears when he rises from his desk chair, turns without a word, and heads for the door. At Terry's desk he is stopped, as she grabs his arm. He looks at her and there are tears in her eyes as she takes his gun from the holster on his hip, laying it on her desk.

Outside, it's cold, but he doesn't go back for his coat.

m m m

He remembers why he didn't want to go home the moment he steps over the threshold and into the warmth of the house.

Alan's in the kitchen. The smell of food wafts from that direction.

"Charlie, Don, that you?"

Don doesn't answer. After a moment, there are footsteps, and his father emerges into the front room.

"Don? What's going on?" It must be written all over his face, because he's just standing there, frozen, lips slightly parted and eyes the size of the moon. Alan stares back, and his hear rate quickens, as a billion awful scenarios run through his mind.

"Don, say something."

The moment he tries to get his voice to work, he falls forward. He's sobbing weakly as Alan catches him, holds on to him tight. "Don, please, where is Charlie?"

He just shakes his head, barely able to breathe as he grits his teeth. It does nothing for the pain. Nothing for the anger, the acrimony that wells up inside him as he thinks of what the universe has done to them.

m m m

Charlie was not your average lonely mathematician. The event hall has to call in extra seating for his memorial.

Afterwards, Terry catches him before he can leave with Alan.

"Are you going to be okay, Don?"

_Stupid question._ "No."

"I'm not asking if you're okay right now, I'm asking if you're ever going to be."

He looks up at the sky, a classic Los Angeles cerulean. There's a long silence before he speaks again.

"I don't know."

m m m

"And you're still angry?"

"Hell, yes I'm fucking angry."

The therapist has taken on that expression of quiet calm that he has adapted especially for when Don Eppes yells. And Don Eppes yells a lot these days.

"Has it helped?"

"Is it supposed to?" Don paces the room, doesn't make eye contact with the motionless shrink. "What the hell else am I supposed to be feeling?"

"I can see you haven't tried to seek help in letting go, in moving on."

"I won't forget him."

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

"What _do_ you mean?"

"You can let this be an event in your life, or it can define your life."

"It makes no difference either way. He's still gone and I still fucked up. My father and I still can't share a room. I can't go to work without getting those infuriating looks of pity and concern. They still haven't given my gun back."

"Well, after the incident with the razors I'm not surprised."

Don scoffs. "Please. It's bullshit. You go to the drugstore to buy one pack of razors while your dad's out of town and they immediately assume you're trying to off yourself. My gun has nothing to do with it. I just wanna go back to work."

"Letting go is the only way things will go back to normal."

"No, things will never go back to normal. They can't. But at least at work I can think about something else for two seconds at a time."

"And David's left?"

"He transferred to Denver last week. I doubt it's done anyone any good though."

"What are you mad at, Don?"

"_Everything!"_ he explodes, falling into a chair, concealing his face with his hands. "Every fucking thing."

"Who?" the therapist is on a roll. Don is angry, but lucid. A rare moment when what he's saying is more than just _I'm fine, leave me alone._

There's a moment of silence where the therapist lets Don collect himself. When he speaks again, his voice is far from steady. "The universe. God. David. Terry. Ian. Myself. Charlie. Everyone I've ever come in contact with."

"Anger will allow you no peace. It will destroy you."

"Why should I have any peace?" Don rubs at his eyes with the palms of his hands. "Who said I deserved any?"

m m m

"So, whose the dead guy?"

"I didn't know him. But roommate took one of his classes. Apparently he was one of those, like, Mensa geniuses or something."

"It's been four months and they're still fresh flowers every day."

The two students inspect the plaque from a short distance, backpacks slung over shoulders casually, pausing on their way to class.

"This one just says, _I'm sorry, Eppesy."_

"It looks like we have stumbled across the only math professor with friends."

"This is a scientific study worthy of documentation!"

"By who? You, miss eighteenth century french literature?"

They laugh. "You know what? Fuck it. Let's skip chemistry. We live in California and we're too busy studying to go outside. I think we should take advantage of the sunlight and take a nap on the lawn."

"Amen."

They sprawl on the grass of the nearby courtyard for the rest of the afternoon. The more observant of the two keeps an eye on the memorial plaque, simply out of curiosity. Death is an abstract concept for the twenty-one year old, a point of interest.

As it happens, his viewing is not in vain.

He recognizes the first two visitors. Drs. Ramanujan and Fleinhardt. Usually lively in class but stoic for the last half year. Both leaving a single red rose.

The third visitor is a tiny woman with light brown hair and a gun and badge strapped to her hip, laying a wreath of white lilies.

The fourth appearance is by a heavy set older man who doesn't leave anything but a note, and then just folds his legs and stares at the plaque for a while. His steps are brisk as he leaves.

The sun is beginning to set when a final man approaches the memorial. He places a white candle on the stone, lighting it with a single match. He is wearing sunglasses, but the onlooker can see some resemblance to the previous visitor. Or maybe it's just his imagination.

The man looks at the dedication for a long time, biting his thumb. When he turns to go the onlooker can see he's wearing a gun also.

At seven, the observer's partner rouses from her peaceful slumber in the grass.

"Hey, it's been three hours. Why didn't you wake me up? We're about to miss dinner."

"Sorry," is all the student says, getting to his feet and offering her a hand.

"Whatever," they begin to walk off together, hand in hand, and she asks, "Anything interesting happen while I was out?"

He's silent for a moment. "Maybe."


End file.
